Revenge
by herbstezeitlosen
Summary: Heinrika was obliged to be a maid to the noble household in Veluca after her father falls seriously ill. After years of work, she is greviously mistreated by the Count for who she works, and sets off on an adventure across Calradia, with the express goal of regaining her dignity, her soul, and revenge.
1. Chapter 1

**I.**

"Heinrika, look."

My father's voice rings out in the still, dusty air of the storeroom. He is unloading crates, fresh off a caravan that had recently made its way through the ropes of sand in the Sarranid desert. His calloused hands dip into the box he had just cracked open, and he pulls out a bolt of cloth, gently thrusting it towards me. He wants me to see it. I can see from the meager candlelight that it's satin; it looks smooth and the light plays upon it when his hands move. I get up from my perch on top of another crate, landing on the floor with both feet, a loud slapping noise. Taking the cloth from his hands, I look at the cloth, feeling its smoothness beneath my small fingers.

"Papa," I say, looking up. "I haven't ever seen a colour like this before!" My voice is still young, the high pitch of innocence and youth lingering in it. I heft the bolt in my hands, jabbing it into the air, squinting and peering through my eyelashes to truly understand the colour. It is the colour of honey, fresh from the bee's hive, or the colour of the sun on a summer's day. Dandelions look the same, too, when their happy yellow heads bow and dance in the spring breeze. It shines like the gold in my father's rings, or like my mother's long hair when it is not tied back.

"It's called saffron, my love, and it's a very expensive cloth. God knows how much I can sell it for. It'll make a good profit, though, that's for sure." He pauses, a bolt of midnight blue velvet slung over his shoulder. "I bought it for much, _much_ less than it was actually worth. Pah! The merchants in Sargoth certainly don't know how to handle their finery." He is whistling now as he unloads the crate. "Make note, Heinrika," he says, pausing from his tune. I pass the cloth back to him, swallow, and nod.

"Make note of what, Papa?" I wipe my hands on my skirt absentmindedly. They are sticky with sweat and I worry if I left some sort of mark on the precious satin.

"Buy low, sell high. Always! How do you think we've been so successful?" He is smiling, his weatherworn face more youthful with the pleasant emotion. I smile back. He returns to his work and I clamber back onto the top of my crate, swinging my legs, hitting my heels against the wood. Papa does not whistle, now. Instead, he works in silence, accrediting each and every object with a sturdy gaze. He pulls out a teapot that had been wrapped in cheap linens to keep it from shattering on the road. More and more cloth. Some furs, dried figs, a jar of oil, a few dresses, rolled up tight. The quietude unnerves me. I do not want to break his concentration, but I am too aware of my every breath, and too aware of the silence, which is now ringing in my ears.

"Papa, can you tell my why come you're a merchant?" I tug on one of my curls, and put the end of it in my mouth. Papa does not look up from his work, but he humours my question. He says that his papa was a merchant at one point in time, and his father's father before that. "It runs in our veins, see," he explains as he passes me a few dried figs. They are sticky in my already gummy hands, and I pop them into my mouth, one at a time.

"These are good!" I proclaim.

"Only the best for my Heinrika. Now..." He rises and dusts off his knees.

 **II.**

We have fallen on hard times. Although it had only been once that Papa made a trek across Calradia to do business, it had taken just that one time for him to fall ill, very ill, and lose the use of his eyes and some use of his legs. They shake when he walks. Papa is blind and lame now, and Mother cannot work. She thinks about taking up a job now that Papa is so ill, but he will not allow her to. Indeed, no one seems that they will allow her to. This makes her upset, but she wants nothing more than to what is right for Papa.

It is a fresh day. The trees are budding out, pale green heads thrusting through the memories of winter death on their gnarled branches. The ground is all over mud. Green grass tries to push up through the wilted stalks of the grass that the snow had strangled. Papa's hand is gnarled, and it clasps at his cane. I can see the shiny white of his bone through his knuckles, and Mama is holding his other elbow, guiding him through the field. Mud sucks at our shoes and threatens to steal them from our feet.

"Heinrika..." His voice has grown feeble with illness. I raise my head to acknowledge him, before I remember that he cannot see. I am ashamed, and blink hard to erase any guilt from my face, which my mother is focused on. "You know we only want what is best for you." I do not know where he is going with this, but I nod, thrusting my hands in my pockets, which are fur-lined. I twist them around, petting the pelt.

"We love you very much," my mother says, and her voice is matter-of-fact. She has always been a very straightforward woman, but my father's ill health has sapped some of her sharpness. "But we cannot sustain you ourselves for much longer. Believe me, we've deliberated this for over a year now. We think it's best to send you off to work at Count Matheas' court. Waiting on the household will give us some good money. It's the only way we can sustain ourselves anymore."

My mouth is dry, and it seems like the mud is sucking at my feet even more. I twist and turn to free my boot and try to carry on with my parents, hitching up my skirt.

"Count Matheas? Mama, I don't know him." My voice is rapid. I do not want to work in the service of a man that I do not know. The thought churns my stomach. Papa has told me that, before he was sick, we always went on adventures, and that I loved the constant change of scenery. Now, 'in my old age', he jokes - I am only eleven at this point! - I have grown too used to be still and not going anywhere.

"You don't know him," she states. "But your father had made a great many trade deals with him and even had his own shop in Veluca for some time. He knows him well, and Papa is sure that he'll treat you just fine. You'll be doing us a service, Heinrika. Think of that! You're helping Papa and me." Mama's golden hair is shot through with silver, but she keeps it tucked up into a cap as to hide her age. Her face is still clear, save for the gentle spiderwebs at the corners of her eyes. Papa's face, however, reads like a map, and his eyes are milky, no longer the vibrant blue they once were, like the ocean. Those cloudy eyes turn to look at me, and I dejectedly inhale.

"Don't you want to help us?" Mama's voice is cutting. I feel as if a mantle of painful guilt has settled upon my shoulders.

"Mama, I do, but..." I could not explain. She would not listen.

"Then it's settled. Within the week, I'll arrange to have you sent off to Veluca. We'll have money once more!" Mama's eyes glint and Papa's face moves slightly, a ghost of a smile covering his mouth.

 **III.**

I look at my hands. They are rough with callouses, from spending the past seven years wallowing in water. I have grown so used to drowning clothes in water, and beating them to free the dirt. The harsh soap cracks my hands and they bleed now. I clean them every night, cringing as the skin breaks anew, even as I rub on a sweet smelling salve. This night is no different. I am sitting on the foot of my bed, scooping out some of the jelly with my two forefingers. Warming it up in my palms, I slather it all over my hands, staring ahead at nothing. Father and Mother have been sending me messages weekly, and once a month, I am allowed to ride back home to Azgad, always travelling with a few guards that the Count has assigned to me.

The Count.

His face is more marred and lined than my father's, and his beady eyes peer out from behind unkempt eyebrows. His hair is long and greasy, a faded red colour, and it is pulled back in a loose knot at the base of his skull. In one hand, he is holding a flute of wine. I leap to my feet, leaving my hands covered with lotion, and I curtsey, my eyes wide from surprise. My hands sting now, and I scratch at them.

"Please, Heinrika, you know we're beyond such formalities." I can barely hear his voice above the rushing of blood in my ears. I am flushing as I keep my knees locked. He gestures with his wine glass, raising his hand. He is asking me to rise to my feet. With a shuffling effort I do, raising myself to my full height. I am eighteen years old yet I do not stand as tall as the other ladies in the court, even the younger ones. Biting my tongue, I taste copper. I stare blankly ahead.

"Indeed, Your Highness," I say, nodding in acknowledgement. "I apologize for it." I rub my hands together, to get the salve into the broken skin, trying to heal the divides in my flesh. He takes a sip of his wine and looks at me with his cold eyes from above the glass. I sit back down, stretching my legs out in front of me. I wait painfully for the Count to speak. I find the silence too much to bear, even for a moment.

"What's the occasion for your visit, Your Highness?" I ask. For a moment, he does not answer me.

"Why? Am I not allowed to visit my own maid?" His voice is amused but it is angry. Perhaps he is in his cups. I duck my head in shame for asking such a question.

"Of course you are, Your Highness. I just... Wherefore are you here?" The words are forced, and I feel as if my limbs are on fire. I pick at a thread on my skirt and the awkwardness makes my spine tingle.

"Very well, if you insist." He smiles an oily smile and steps into the room, easing my door shut behind him. I stand up and move away from the bed, sweeping my hands out. I am offering him a seat, but he does not take it. "I have a question for you, Heinrika."

"Yes, Your Highness?" I wonder what he needs. I wish I could be scouring pans right now, or beating out rugs, instead of being trapped in the small room with only so much air.

"Tell me, have you ever been with a man before?" His question is frank and my ears ring. I am too shocked to speak, and I look at him, bewildered. My mouth is open, just a bit, and I try to force words off of my tongue. But it is not working. My head is pounding. I hear the clicking of buttons. I rise, squeezing my fists at my sides, and now I move to leave. The hard soles of my shoes are far too loud. They echo in the room, in my ears, in his ears. My hand touches the cold door knob and I lean against it. My fumbling fingers cannot get any purchase. Count Matheas springs up and he throws his weight against me. I hit the wall, and my head is swimming.

"Where are you going?" he asks, his voice low in my ears. I scream, I try to fight.

"Please, Your Highness," I wheeze. "Let me go." My head is swimming, and I do not know what to do. I tense my muscles and bear against him, but he is stronger and he is bigger.

I throw my weight against him again. He does not budge. "Stop fighting, my dear." The term is caustic in his voice. "That'll only make it worse for _you_ , won't it?" I scream as loud as I can. I flail, I try to free myself, but I am pressed against the wood of the wall. Splinters drive through my dress and into my torso, my thighs. I am crying now. I have always prided myself on not crying, but now, I cannot help the deluge of tears. I twist my neck around, and I see the terrifying truth. He had undone his breeches, and the member was fully out. Something feels detached inside of me just now. I cannot feel the expression on my face.

"What's your problem?" The Count is demanding I answer him. I do not. "Never seen a cock before?" He seems amused.

"Let me go!" I scream once more, and my voice is sure and loud. I twist my body now, able to face into his torso. My hand rises, and I scratch him across the face, raking my nails over his nose, cheeks, eyes, blood under my fingers. The Count growls now, and grabs me about the waist. He throws me as if I am nothing more than a sack of potatoes. I stumble. My feet slide across the floor, but I can breathe my own air. I rise up on shaking legs and run for the door. The Count catches me and hoists me into the air. I shriek wildly, but no one comes to my rescue. I am thrown against my bed. My head knocks against the wall, and stars erupt into my field of vision.

I turn onto my stomach and try to get up, but he is so fast. A hand lands on the back of my neck and I cannot breathe, my face full of sheets. The linens suck to my mouth with every laboured breath. His weight on my back is cracking my ribs. I trash against his weight. I know now that I am hungry and I am weak. He is so much bigger than I. I am crying into the bed now. It takes too much energy to scream. No one will come to my rescue, though. I save my voice. My soul is burning as I feel my skirt slide up, and it dies when my vision goes white and blurry with pain, splitting. My skeleton rattles with every slam it endures, and I am too terrified to speak, to breathe, and I want to die. I gag against gritted teeth. His fists are raining down against me, and I can feel purple marks spread across my back. My hands are bleeding.

I cannot fight against him anymore. I sob silently as he finishes, as he leaves me to myself. I am murdered, yet I still live. I ache from the inside out. I swallow the bitter taste of bile that had rose in my throat. I hurt. But I rise from the bed, filled with pitch back rage. I move as fast as my legs will carry me. I limp, so sore, so broken, but I move, somehow. I do not deserve to be subjected to that. Even though I walk, I am dead.

I find my chamber pot, my basin, and I clean myself. I will die a thousand deaths before I fall pregnant with his child. I go to my vanity, and I take my long blonde hair in one hand, and a dagger in the other, and I cut it all off.

I know nothing anymore, just the need for revenge, and the need to escape.


	2. Chapter 2

They do not know me. I do not know them.

The faces on the street are all unfamiliar, but they are all the same. The faces of the aged washerwomen and the young maids with milk and honey complexions and the mothers with slightly wizened expressions all blend into one. The strapping young men, the merchants on every corner hawking their wares, the militia men clad in the Count's heraldic colours are all just faces that I do not care to distinguish from one another. The sour smell of sweat and wine still fills my head as I leave the courtyard, my cap tugged over my face in inexplicable shame. The sky is sweet coloured, pinks and blues, and the sun's head is rearing from the east.

It is morning, but my body is leaden with exhaustion. I want nothing more than to sleep.

The ground is dirt and shifts under my weight as I move with awkward little steps through the town. My legs are bruised and my muscles are pulled tight, a lute string ready to snap at the slightest movement. I am a sorry sight, and all of the eyes I feel burning into my back makes me want to collapse to the ground. I bade the earth to swallow me up. The labyrinthine streets make my head spin. At one time, I knew the layout of the city. I knew the streets of Veluca. But now, they are a new place, completely alien. My eyes are not my own eyes; they have been adulterated and damaged through my murder at the Count's hands. I know no one will listen to a word from me, for they are viciously loyal. I am not moving now. I stand in the middle of the town, clutching my elbows against my chest, eyes turned up, looking at the rooftops.

A hand touches my shoulder. I scream, jump, spinning away from it. It is one of those washerwomen, with rough and dirty hands and watery green eyes. I do not know her. Her face is unimportant and it blurs before my very eyes. My body lurches away from her touch.

"My girl, are you lost?" Her voice sounds as if she has swallowed gravel.

I do not respond.

"Oh, fie. How d'you expect to get any help if you won't talk?" Every word from her jagged voice scrapes inside of my head. It infuriates me.

I cannot respond. My tongue is heavy in my mouth.

"Suit yourself, child."

She leaves me. I can still feel the pressure from her hand on my shoulder. I swat at my shoulder, to erase the ghost of her touch. I know she is watching me still. I force myself to move on, moving my eyes to a spot in front of me. I do not see, but I look, watching my feet pass over the dirt and then onto the cobbles. Some of the stones are worn down and they are smooth to the touch. Carriage wheels have beaten them into submission in various places. Centuries of foot traffic has worn them thin, as well. I follow the flattened and softened stones, hoping that they will lead me to the tavern.

My intuition proves right.

I push the door open, leaning against it. It gives way and I step into the tavern. The smell of wood smoke, roasting meat, mead, and warm bodies is thick in the room, and I pull a bit of my cowl over my nose and mouth as I shakily ascend the stairs. My footsteps echo on the stone staircase, and I grip the railing, hauling myself upwards. I cannot rely on the strength of my legs alone. The smell of pork causes my stomach to grumble, but the thought of putting any food in my mouth causes me to heave.

A breath of relief escapes me as I reach the clearing. There are only a few people in the tavern; a dark skinned man with a scimitar at his hip, and a man in leather armour, a crossbow slung across his back. The barkeep is a young girl with strawberry blonde hair and a smattering of freckles across a ruddy face. Her hands are just as rough as mine and she is clutching a linen, scrubbing at the counter top, trying to raise some unholy stain. The dark man rips off a piece of chicken with his fingers unceremoniously and eats it. The armed man does nothing, but he leans against a pillar and sips at a mug of mead.

Their eyes are too much for me. I keep my head down and approach the lady behind the counter. The soap she scrubs with smells caustic.

"Welcome to the Sleeping Bear," she chirps, her voice too light and too chipper. "How can I help you?" Her eyes are bright and it seems as if she does not mind this numbing job.

"I need a room." My voice can only carry that far. I feel angry at myself for being so cross with her. But the façade of merriment does not break.

"Very well then, dear madam. That'll be ten denars, if it please you!" She smiles at me and stoops down behind the counter to grab a key. The ring is made of iron, and it is old, covered with a sheet of rust. She looks at it as if she wants to pick some of it off, but she does not. I am surprised that she would let the keys show their age. She passes it to me as I dig into the pockets sewn into my dress. I scrounge up a handful of denars – I do not count, for my eyes and mind would fail me – and I lay them on the counter.

I hear a bench scoot out, rumbling against the wooden floor. The dark skinned man is rising, and he wipes his greasy hands on his shirt. Claiming the keys from the counter, I move as fast as I dare to the ladder the barkeep gestures to. As I balance my feet on the bottom rung and clutch at the sides, I pray for my strength to preserve me, allow me to make it up without falling. Although my limbs shake and feel dead, I make it up to the clearing. I waste no time.

I glance down at the keys. A large '5' was struck into the iron. I scan the doors for the same number, and when I find my room, I plow into it and fall into the bed. Without doffing my clothing, I find solace in the cousin of death's sweet embrace. I do not wish to rise again.

But of course, no matter how much we suffer, time still wears on. I wake some hours later, tangled in the bed sheets. They are coarse linen and I do not think that they have been washed for some time. Rising up from the bed, I move my hands to the back of my head, to coax sleep snarls from my hair. Only when my fingers brush the back of my neck is when I remember that I had cut all of my hair off. The dull ache between my legs and up and down my thighs brings me back to reality. My hands are still bloody. My feet meet the ground, and I rub my aching arms. They had fought against the rich bulk of the Count, who had been bloated from a nice feast of roast capon, white bread, freshly churned butter and mulled wine. I kneel by the basin of water in the room and peer at my reflection in its still, glassy surface. I had only ever seen myself in the shine of silver plates and the occasional mirror I washed in Veluca. I am swollen with tears. The blood vessels under delicate pale skin had ruptured, and my face glowed red. I dip my finger into the water, and it pierces through my right cheek, sending ripples throughout the rest of my visage. Cupping my hands, I break the surface, and splash the cold water over my face. I gasp. The water tastes stale but I feel awake.

I gather myself, standing at my full height. I run a hand through my hair. The choppy mess sticks out like a broom. I force my head into my hood, pulling the pale green coif over the disaster. I do not want to leave the warm room but I must. I do not know what I want to do, what I am going to do, but I am filled with such a fury that I feel I must do something.

My father had once told me that travelling when he sold his wares had made him feel good. No one knew him in the tundra or the steppes, he said. As I exit my room, the ring of keys around my wrist, I am thinking. Father had secured his freedom in travel, but he had also found his prison in that selfsame thing. I sigh. I feel weak with hunger as I descend down the ladder, my legs trembling. I want nothing more than a good dinner before I run, run for my life, leaving Veluca and all of its newfound horrors behind.

There is a congregation of green suited men in the tavern, bearing the heraldry of Count Matheas. They must know that I have run away. The Count must have complained about it to them. "Find the whore, bring her back. She should know her place." He most likely spoke those words to the men. I avoid all eye contact with them and I move as quickly as I can, although my stomach is raw from growling. I trip down the stairs, weak, and exit into the city streets. Their memories have flooded back to me, now, and I think I know my way around. I am hungry, so hungry, and the shops are boarding up for the night. There are just a few people on the streets, now. A few children playing in the dying sun, whores, soldiers. I try to move quickly, quickly, faster than I have, and my legs scream in protest. I am aching still. He has hunted me and made me lame, a creature that is stuffed and mounted for display. To be looked at curiously and jeered at, a freakish thing.

No. I will not let myself become such a creature.

I walk with more purpose now, up the cobbled hills. The incline before the castle is great. My blood runs cold and I move the other way, gathering my skirts in my hands. I wonder if anyone else can see the bruises on my legs. The sun is shining in my eyes and I clasp my hand to my brow. I see an old man, with gnarled hands, a wilted face, standing at his stall. There are slabs of beef, rubbed with salt and pepper, hocks of ham, racks of mutton. I approach him with purpose, hunger overtaking anger. He looks at me curiously.

"And how are you?" His voice is like paper.

"How... how much for the bread?" I press my fingers into it. It is stale.

"It's over a day old," he explains. "Three denars, I'd say." He shrugs.

I dig out three denars from my pocket and drop them into his hand. He looks at his money as I claim my bread. I eat the bread carelessly, chewing through its tough crust. There are black burn marks on the bottom of the bread and the flour is very coarse. But it is food. It fills my stomach and that is all I can ask for. I am running through the streets now. My horse is at the stable, and I untie its harness. The stablehand does not even look at me. The horse is lame, this he knows, and it wouldn't be any big loss if someone were to steal it. I cringe, I almost cry, as I straddle the beast. But as soon as I breach the city limits, I drink in a big breath of air, and I feel my blood roar with purpose.


End file.
